Miburo In Meiji Clothing
by plaidshirtjimkirk
Summary: Though everything was lost in the war and the era turned from Edo to Meiji, Saito has a reason to awaken every morning and give it his all.


I wrote this several months ago as an intro post on one of my blogs. I really admire Saito, my dudes... I can't imagine how difficult it was for him to go from being in the Shinsengumi to working for internal affairs of the Meiji government, but he did that. I got nothing but love for someone that strong.

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 **.*Miburo In Meiji Clothing*.**

Right before the breaking of dawn...before the first rays of sunlight spill across the horizon, his eyes squeeze and slowly open to a room shrouded in darkness.

It's habitual, instinctual: just another day beginning with the same sharp breath that always fills his lungs.

His toes point and his body lengthens in a stretch, a moment more of comfort before his palm braces against the mattress and he pushes himself into a sitting position. The cover slips from his bare chest, puddling at his lap and he, a true creature of habit, immediately reaches for the nearby pack of cigarettes. ... _Half empty already_ , his sleep-addled mind notes; well, it is what it is. He slips one stick between his lips. A match strikes against the rough edge of the box, casting a dim glow of gold long enough only to light up, and then falls extinguished into a circular tray.

The first drag is always the best in the morning for some reason. His eyes close once more while his free hand rises to massage out neck and shoulder stiffness. And like this, Saito remains, as clarity begins to seep through the heavy haze instilled by sleep.

Outside, birds chirp and tweet but in here, there's only silence. He finds this satisfactory. Quiet is comforting—he nods as he continues working the back of his neck—and so is order.

There's one futon in this neatly maintained bedroom and in the corner, today's attire already laid out. Saito takes another draw before his lashes part for good and he wastes no more time to pivot into seiza on the tatami. The corners of the cover meet as he folds them over, aligning each blanket edge perfectly and following the discipline with his futon. These items and his pillow are methodically stored off to the side.

Ashes flick into the tray. The shoji is pushed aside and he steps into slippers, walking without dragging his feet down the dark hall. He makes his ablutions and skips the kitchen upon returning, the spent cigarette put out in a different place somewhere along the trip.

There's a specific routine when it comes to donning his uniform. Trousers first, then the undershirt tucked in neatly and secured with a belt. Next, the jacket and its buttons done from bottom to top, and after, socks and gloves. Barring the hat and polished shoes waiting near the front door, the final essentials are applied to his person in the bedroom; the sword is affixed at his hip, the cigarettes and matches slid into his breast pocket.

The work of dressing is physically done but one further step remains while he smooths out his appearance.

At the opposite end of the hall is the study: outfitted with a wooden desk, shelves lined in history books, and a large chest sitting on the floor. Though he hasn't physically opened this chest in much too long, his spirit does each morning—unlocks it, procures the essence of the blue and white haori from within, and drapes it over his shoulders.

Because even though Saito now wears a police uniform symbolizing support for the Meiji government, he's still clothed by the values from a different time, still guided by a set of rules that he's learned to make relevant in the current era.

For the honor of every one of his brothers who made the ultimate sacrifice to raise this country, and for the sake of their resting souls, he lives as a Miburo in Meiji clothing. Nothing less, and nothing more.

Saito's feet slip into his shoes at the door. He runs his hands through his hair to ensure no strands are out of place (naturally, there are none), and bows his head to put on his hat.

Indeed, it's another chilly autumn morning. Sunlight has begun bleeding across the skyline as his steps carry him in the direction of downtown. Prefectures away, he imagines Nagakura is awake as well, serving his own tribute by penning his latest historical account. And somewhere else...

Somewhere else, Kondo and Hijikata are drinking sake together while Yamanami reads in silence. Okita is smiling and making snide comments, running playful fingers through his hair. Matsubara is lecturing and frightening his pupils as always. Inoue is training with a shinai and watching over them all. And Todo and Harada and Yamazaki and Shimada... Takeda, Tani, Miki, and further…

Whatever their stories and whether they died heroically or in disgrace—whether Saito even liked them personally or not—each of these men share a bond with him that transcends their mortality. And as Nagakura keeps their memories alive with words, Saito preserves the liveliness of their souls by upholding the beliefs they defended above all else so many years ago.

No one ever thought _Aku Soku Zan_ could effectively exist if they'd lost the war.

The breeze takes up Saito's invisible haori and his hand falls upon his sword when the police station comes into sight.

They were wrong.

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Thanks for reading!


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